


Said the Signal To the Noise

by feverbeats



Category: Lupe Fiasco - Works
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 13:48:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feverbeats/pseuds/feverbeats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because they're everywhere, and the music on the CD isn't strong enough to shut out the billboards, radio, TV, subway ads, fire and smoke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Said the Signal To the Noise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kristin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kristin/gifts).



**FIREFIGHTERS**

The streets are on fire.

No, wait, hold up.

This is where we are: Got an apartment to hide out in, enough food for a couple days (Jamal says it's the first time he ever robbed a convenience store or anybody else), and the antidote.

So that's the important part. And I can't tell you about it, or what it is, not right now, because they might be listening. Anywhere, even this shitty apartment. It's my aunt's, but I don't know where she ended up. Probably out there with everybody else.

We also got our boards. That part's important, too, maybe even more important than the antidote. Nobody wants to fuck with two skater kids, mostly because we look exactly like nothing. That and we're too fast to catch.

"Hey," Jamal says. "You okay?"

He keeps checking. All day and all night, like maybe I'll turn around and my eyes will be on fire and all I'll want is to go out to one of those SuperMallz and burn up.

"I'm okay," I say.

Jamal's dad used to tell him don't watch too much TV or you'll rot your brain, and that's 'cause he had to try real hard to be a good dad after Jamal's mom went away. But it was smart, what he said, 'cause it turned out to be true.

And the streets are on fire. Everybody getting sick, except a few of us. We don't watch TV, don't listen to the radio, don't sell and don't buy. All I got is one of those CD players like from a couple decades ago, and one CD. It's mine, and I bought it back when it was safe to buy shit, and if our earbuds don't break, we'll have the antidote forever.

So now you know that.

But the thing is, it won't be forever. Because they're everywhere, and the music on the CD isn't strong enough to shut out the billboards, radio, TV, subway ads, fire and smoke. That's why Jamal's getting scared. That's why I'm making a plan.

We got two places left to go to get help, 'cause there's just two of us, and Jamal's not even seventeen yet. Who are we kidding, thinking we can save the world, or even ourselves?

"There's no music anymore," Jamal says. He never used to be that into music, but now I guess he kind of has to be.

"Sure there is," I say. I jerk my head at the window, because we can hear the noise coming from down the street. It's just ad jingles on the big light-up billboards, though. Not real music.

Jamal shakes his head. "We gotta do something. Tonight, maybe."

Tonight, or soon. We keep putting it off, we'll get sick, too, and then there won't be hardly anybody left not playing their game and burning.

So we take everything we might need to take if we're not coming back. I tuck my hair up under a hat, Jamal doesn't. We fill the pockets of our hoodies with candy bars (yeah, like you could have got anything better in stores where you can't _buy_ ) and flashlights and not much else. I tuck my CD player into the biggest pocket in my pants. No bags, no way to get caught too easy.

"You okay, girl?" Jamal asks. He looks so tired.

"Sure," I say, which isn't comforting.

Out there, once the door creaks open and spits us out into the streets, we stop being safe and start being prey. We look down, not at the billboards. We stick close to each other so we can share earbuds if we need to, if everything else gets too loud. The song the money and the fire sing is gonna get too loud eventually, way too loud for that to work.

We have our boards, and once we're off our little back street with the tall, leaning, leaky buildings, we use those, instead. Walking's too slow. People notice you if you walk. Before Jamal can get his board down, though, some white guy pushes past him, in too much of a hurry to get to the newer, bigger, better Macy's in front of us. They even put one here, I'm telling you, right up against where the projects start.

Anyway, this guy pushes Jamal, and I make the mistake of turning, and the guy's eyes. They're on fire.

But he just looks at Jamal like he ain't even seen him and walks on.

"Shit," Jamal whispers.

"Not a whole lot different from how they looked at you before, huh?" I say, and Jamal relaxes again. And we keep going.

You can go from the projects where the where the guys selling you crack to the streets out here where guys selling you sex and watches. Don't matter, they all got the same eyes. Even the media guys on TV got the same eyes, selling you Nike, Reebok, other stuff kids like us don't ever need.

So who's selling it to them? You all know the game.

You know. The Game.

And you can't beat the Game.

**THE FOOD COURT**

We finally stop skating halfway across the city. This isn't the nice part, but it's not the poor part, either. You know what I mean. Jamal stops his board and flips it into his hand. His eyes are huge. "This it?"

"Yeah," I saw. They call it the Food Court. Never seen it, but everybody's heard of it.

It looks like a warehouse on the outside, but with a big gold sign up in lights over the doors. It just says _Hungry?_ Like, if you're hungry, come on in. Just that welcoming, and when we get close, the doors swing open like a mouth that's about to eat you up.

Inside's like a market, only with a roof over it, with all kinds of stalls selling all kinds of stuff--no, not all kinds, just _food_. But it's everything you could think of. Fast food, cheap food, good food, and all of it with a price tag. This is where he runs it out of. Him. The King. They say he pays the ones who sell his stuff okay, but he can only afford that 'cause of where the real money's coming from.

My mouth won't stop watering. Candy bars can only keep you going so long, and they got real food here. They got everything, if you didn't want something fancy.

And at the back of the warehouse, there's a door. "In there," I whisper to Jamal. He's looking around all pissed off, not even like he's that hungry.

"Get over it," I snap. "It pays, right, and they get to eat."

"Yeah, while he runs crack out the back," Jamal says.

I tell him to keep his voice down and we walk down to the end and knock.

That door opens up, too, all on its own, and we walk on in.

He ain't fat, but he's big. Big bones. Dressed nice, but not as nice as I figured. And no crown, at least that we can see. Just a big desk and lockers behind it. It smells like grease in here, but not in a bad way.

"Who let a couple of little kids in here?" he asks. He's got a big voice, too.

"You did," I say after a second, 'cause I don't think Jamal's gonna say anything. He never does. It's my job to talk to people.

"And why would I do that?" he asks. He looks like he thinks it's funny, like it's all a--joke or something.

I wouldn't be here if we weren't desperate. No point being safe now. "The streets are on fire," I say.

"Go on."

I take a deep breath. Next to me, Jamal does the same thing, real quiet. "Media moguls got everything," I say. "And guys like you. The crack dealers and all that. That was bad enough. But now--"

"Now it's gone a little further," the King says. He stands up behind his desk. "Now it's turned up a few degrees. Chair-broiled. And now everybody's playing the game."

I lock eyes with him and that's when I know for sure he'll help us.

"Why would I give you what you want?" he says.

"Everybody wants to beat the system," I say. "Everybody wants to beat the game."

He laughs, this time like he's not comfortable. "And you think I got what it takes."

Word on the street is. Word is, he has it and he won't use it because if this wall comes crumbling down, if the fires go out, he'll be against the wall with the worst of them. 

"You got it," I say. "And you're gonna give it to me, 'cause you don't have the balls to use it yourself."

I think for a second he might shoot me. He reaches into his jacket and I think, hey, well, this is it, good run, at least we're not gonna on out on fire for all the newest and latest addictions. But no. He just pulls out a die, blue, with flames on the side. He tosses it to me and I catch it.

"Get out," he says.

I turn right around and run, because he might want to help, but he's playing the game with the rest of them. I throw my board down and kick off.

"Catch up," I call back over my shoulder, and Jamal does.

**INSTRUMENTAL**

By the time we get out of the warehouse, out of the neighborhood, Jamal is breathing hard and shaky. We keep running into people with eyes on fire who watch us too close.

"You good?" I ask. "Come on, don't be a bitch."

Jamal gives me this wounded look and I bite my tongue.

"Sorry," I say. "I didn't mean it like that. I just meant--don't get upset,'cause we're gonna be okay."

"We're not," Jamal says quietly.

For all I know, we're the only two people left in this city, hell, in this world. Everyone else, even the Food Court King, got the bug.

"Want to listen?" I ask, tilting my head toward him.

We share the earbuds for a little bit, listening to the CD whir along. Sounds like it's wearing out, but who knows? We can't stay long, though. We got somewhere else to be.

This next place is out on the edge of the city, where it's a little quieter. The buildings are shorter, and once or twice I catch a glimpse of people like us, not on fire, not buying or selling, not pushing, just scared. We end up at a house at the end of the street, with no lights on and no doorbell. I bust out the lock with my elbow and Jamal whispers my name like he's pissed, but what would he do without me?

We climb the stairs, only it feels like a lot more stairs than it looked like from outside. Fifth floor. I keep thinking I hear crackling like fire in the walls.

"What're you gonna say?" I ask.

Jamal shakes his head. If he's not sure, we're screwed.

The room at the top of the stairs don't have a door, and it's empty. The only thing is a giant flatscreen mounted on the wall, and a guy sitting there in the middle of the floor. He doesn't turn around and we don't go in. We just stand in the doorway and watch. Flatscreen's showing all kinds of things, real fast, flickers of ads and trailers and shows and everything. The guy's cuffed to the bottom of the screen.

It feels like someone's watching us.

"Let's go," I say, scared as Jamal was in the Food Court.

Jamal looks almost peaceful, though. He steps forward, and I'm scared the guy's gonna turn around and--I don't know what.

"They say," I start in a whisper, but I stop.

Jamal says, "Tell me about the Streets."

Nothing.

"They say you tell the truth," Jamal says.

I can't hear anything, but Jamal can, I can tell. He's looking around with this little smile, and he nods slowly after a minute. Then I hear it, real faint. Music. But it's words, too. I can't tell what they're saying.

"What do we need to beat her?" Jamal asks quietly after a minute. He waits. I'm itching to say something, but I know it's his turn.

Then, _Beats,_ the music says.

**COOL**

We leave the house, and I'm so tired I can barely walk, barely even ride my board. I can feel dawn coming on, and Jamal looks as bad as I do.

"Maybe we should stop and sleep," I say.

Jamal shakes his head. "Come on. They got eyes everywhere. If they know where we've been all night, they know what we want to do. We gotta end this now."

Now? I'm not ready. Guess I never will be. Now or never, beat them at their game or die trying. I know which one sounds more likely.

We skid to a stop in the middle of an empty street and I pull out the die. It's glowing a little in the dark, or it looks like.

"What do you think we're supposed to do with it?" Jamal asks.

I give him a look. "Stupid," I say, and I roll the die. It hits the ground and rolls away, skittering down under a car. When I bend down to pick it up, I see there's someone standing on the other side. Before I can shout a warning to Jamal, the person steps around the car.

It's not what I was afraid of. No skull face, no rotting hand, no fire eyes and locket around her neck. It's some guy, older than us, and then--

"Hey, you're him," Jamal says.

"Who?" I ask. I don't know him.

"I guess," he says.

Jamal's grinning, and I haven't seen him do that in ages.

"What?" I ask.

Jamal sticks out his hand. "I'm Jamal."

"Who's your girlfriend?" the guy asks.

"I'm not," I say. "Who the hell are you?"

Jamal holds up the CD player. "It's _him_."

Oh. I try to fit the voice on the CD with the guy standing in front of me, and I can't. He's too normal. The voice that's been keeping us safe don't mesh with his baseball cap and oversized jacket that smells like old leather.

But then he smiles and says, "So what'd the music tell you?" And I think, for the first time in about a year, that maybe we have a chance.

The streets are on fire and we're the firefighters. We might not survive till morning, but we might. We might even save everybody. And we if we don't? If we get hooked in like everybody else, fists full of money, starving and on fire?

Well--Everybody always said kids like us never make it.


End file.
